


Night Cafe

by ryttu3k



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: X & Y | Pokemon X & Y Versions
Genre: Coffee Shops, Coping, Developing Relationship, Falling In Love, Fluff, Insomnia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-12-25 04:48:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12028443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryttu3k/pseuds/ryttu3k
Summary: A few months after Geosenge and Augustine isn't coping well, but an encounter at an all-night cafe may just be what he needs.





	Night Cafe

There's a superhero at table three.

Given that it's a quarter past five in an all-night cafe in the middle of the busiest city in Kalos, it's probably not the weirdest sight around. It's probably not even the weirdest sight just in that cafe, all-night cafes being the kind of place to attract interesting crowds (he's moderately sure that the man in the back corner might actually be a vampire).

Still, as weird sights go, superheroes are definitely up there.

Augustine tries to stare surreptitiously, half hiding behind both his laptop and the menu that he doesn't actually need any more because he already knows the contents by heart, peering at the man in fascination. The outfit is Blaziken-themed, and, what's more, _Mega_ Blaziken-themed, the cape is dramatically and satisfyingly swishy, and the face beneath the mask shows a tired smile and a rather nice beard.

The rest, he can't see. The idle thought that maybe he should set up some situation where the superhero can swoop in and save him crosses his mind; he promptly erases it as a schoolgirl fantasy.

The superhero glances up; meets Augustine's gaze. Augustine immediately ducks behind the menu again.

It's just a look. Nothing of it. He had probably felt Augustine staring at him and had wanted to know who the weirdo was. (Surprise! It's the regional Pokemon professor!)

Besides, even if it is anything more, it isn't like he's necessarily in a good position to do anything about it. Only a few months on, and he still feels raw, like some protective layer has been stripped away from his very being. He would stare down at his own hand on the table, one holding the menu, the other clenched tight; see the nails dig in to his skin. He can still see his hand in _his_ , see long aristocratic fingers, fair skin dotted with freckles, see the Mega Ring on his left middle finger.

The superhero has a nice smile. He just can't quite look at it without the memory of another, a rare and genuine smile; not the calculated face he wore for the public.

The cape brushes his arm as the superhero swishes past him. Augustine turns automatically to watch him leave, then sighs and drops the menu again.

Figures.

The waitress clears her throat; she's holding a tray. Automatically, he smiles, requests his usual coffee. She notes it down, and then sets a plate in front of him; on it is a delicate little petit-four, a tiny little chocolate cake topped with a sliced pecha berry.

"Oh," he says apologetically, "I'm very sorry, I didn't order this -"

"I know," she smiles back. "The gentleman who was at table three ordered it for you with his compliments."

Augustine blinks. He smiles.

 

It doesn't start with the all-night cafes.

It mostly starts with socially acceptable self-destruction, a slow destructiveness that wins him praise and only a few concerned looks. In the aftermath of the Geosenge Incident (because he can't think of it as anything other than The Incident, refuses to give it a name that describes it more correctly, that will make it more real), he throws himself headlong into his work. He works late into the night, bleary-eyed and downing coffee like it's his own lifeblood, stumbling home in the early hours.

He'd crash fully clothed on top of his rumpled bed and wake breathless from nightmares (and from sleeping in his binder, something he hasn't done since university), force himself into the shower, scrub the sleep away. Down more coffee for breakfast. Grab a pastry on the way to work, because he hasn't eaten since Dexio bought a pizza for everyone at the lab yesterday for lunch. Spend the day smiling, smiling, working away, caffeinating himself until he swears he can see through time.

Fall asleep at the desk, wake up with his back aching and hair rumpled, nightmares showing in his shadowed eyes. Work until late, bury himself in it, because if he doesn't stop, then he doesn't have to think; if he doesn't sleep, then he doesn't have to dream.

He crashes hard after a few months of that. When he finally does find his bed properly, he sleeps for twenty hours at a straight shot.

There are other ways to be self-destructive.

It's not hard. There are plenty of bars in Lumiose City, and he gets to know them with alarming enthusiasm. Keeping up the facade during the day is easier when he knows he can utterly lose himself at night. He wakes up in the morning with only the fuzziest of memories from the night before, a hangover, the taste of wine in his mouth, and, more often than not, a stranger in his bed.

(He doesn't really want to think about how often they're tall, bearded redheads. He... really doesn't want to think about what name might have been on his lips the night before.)

It's probably not the best coping method. No, it's _definitely_ not the best coping method. It's almost a textbook example on What Not To Do After Your Loved One Spectacularly And Publicly Self-Destructs. He could teach a class on it - Poor Life Choices with your host, Augustine Sycamore. Your first lesson, So You Want To Sleep With A Stranger That Reminds You Of Your Ex!

He's gotten used to gallows humour.

But even that eventually ends. He can't keep it up, can't continue like this, waking up with his head and body aching, a stranger in bed next to him, the vaguest memories of the night before clanging against his brain, pressing against his eyes. He's probably a few uninhibited nights away from doing something he'll definitely regret, a permanent consequence of temporary pleasure.

He gives up. Drags himself back into the semblance of a normal life. He knows he's not back to normal, not yet, but he can still act it, can't he? He can still pretend, can't he? He can pretend that there's nothing wrong, that he's happy, that Geosenge doesn't still haunt every footstep, can't he?

He still can't sleep at night. He still can't bear to dream.

But there's something kinder about four in the morning when he's beneath open sky, breathing in Lumiose City instead of staring at his ceiling. There is the minor risk of walking around in the middle of the night, of course, but he has his Pokemon with him even if he's not the greatest battler in the region, and he's keeping out of trouble.

It's better this way. He's existing within Kalos, letting himself experience the city, letting himself time and space to think. He's not working himself to thin cotton shreds. He's not taking risks. Augustine walks, the sky above him, his hands in his pockets, and when he wants a moment of stillness, there are plenty of all-night cafes to pick from.

And, in one of them, a superhero at table three.

 

"The man at table three," he murmurs to the waitress as he prepares to leave, doling out the extra cash, "In the, er, cape. Could you bring him the sitrus macaron? With my compliments."

 

It's raining. It's raining hard. No one is going anywhere until it stops.

"The macaron last time was good," the superhero says lightly as he approaches Augustine's table, and Augustine glances up and blinks. "Do you want another coffee? We might be here for a little while."

Augustine opens his mouth, closes it again, and smiles. "I probably shouldn't," he says, full of genuine regret, "Or I'll be up until next week." He hesitates, glances up, bites his lip absent-mindedly. "But I wouldn't say no to some tea."

The superhero grins. "I can do that."

It's comfortable. Quiet, other than the background white noise of the rain, the murmur of indistinct conversation, the occasional clink of cutlery. The superhero stirs sugar into his tea and watches Augustine thoughtfully.

"So," he says conversationally, "Do you do this a lot? Going out late at night and everything - when do you sleep?"

"Inconsistently," Augustine says with a short laugh. "Honestly, I get insomnia a lot, and -" He hesitates, not sure he wants to mention his previous coping strategies. "Well, it's better than staring at the ceiling. So I deal with it. So, uh -" he starts, then stops, because he's not really sure there's a polite way to ask what's with the hero get-up.

Instead, the superhero just nods and offers his own explanation. "I can understand that. My sleeping patterns are all over the place - good thing I'm self-employed and can take a day off if I need to sleep," he laughs. "Making sure the city is okay - it's a full-time job, you know?"

The rain is slowing, stopping. The superhero glances outside.

"And," he adds, "I'd better get back to it. See you around, Professor."

It takes Augustine until the next morning before he realises he never told the superhero who he was.

 

"Dammit."

Augustine sits back on his heels and glares at the piece of equipment. Something is well and truly rattling around in there; he's sure it's probably a ridiculously easy fix, but he's really not willing to try and potentially damage it more.

Grumbling, he calls over his shoulder, "No, honestly, I have no idea. You should call the mechanic."

Sina calls back an affirmative, and Augustine pushes himself up, shoulders slumped as he heads over to the break room. He's weary, the lack of sleep catching up with him; if he has the quickest of naps on the sofa, he probably won't dream...

It's not much sleep, just enough to make him bleary-eyed when the sound of whistling - _whistling_ , of all things - makes him stir. Still rubbing at one eye with the back of his fist, he wanders out to find the mechanic half-buried in the machine, equipment laid out neatly beside him. The mechanic's name is Meyer, he vaguely recalls; he's repaired things at the lab before.

"Morning, Professor!" Meyer says cheerfully as he removes himself from the machine's guts, giving him a smile. "Man, you look exhausted."

Augustine smiles faintly, because the mechanic really can't talk. "Did you work out what's wrong with our machine?" he asks instead, leaning against the wall next to it. "I had a look, but, er, electronics aren't really my thing."

"Oh yeah, just a motor burn-out." Meyer grins as he wipes his brow; there's a smear of grease left behind. "Easy to replace, fiddly to get to, you know?"

Augustine smiles again, almost automatically; Meyer's smile is warm. "Well, I'll leave it in your capable hands. Thank you for coming out."

"No problem. Oh, pass me the towel? It's just there on the tool box, didn't want to get your nice clean carpet all greasy."

He does; Meyer wipes aforementioned capable hands clean. Augustine finds himself staring almost involuntarily at them - they're big, warm-looking hands; he has the involuntary and surprisingly pleasant sudden image of them wrapping around his own.

Meyer smiles; Augustine is grateful he probably can't read minds. "Thanks. I'll have this done by lunchtime!"

"Thanks," Augustine echoes, and leaves before he starts blushing.

His hands still smell like grease and oil.

 

It's another two nights before Augustine goes to the night cafe again. The superhero isn't there, and he finds himself chipping away at the disappointment with his sketch pad, doodling his coffee cup, some of the other patrons, cute Pokemon. A few hands, a smaller one wrapped in two large, warm, gently roughed ones.

He wakes up with a start an hour later, and finds, scrawled in the corner of the page, a message.

_Sorry I couldn't stay, I didn't want to wake you and thought you needed the sleep. I like your drawings!_

_Blaziken Mask_

Blaziken Mask, huh? Augustine examines the note, and smiles before he notices the addition in much smaller, slightly smudged letters.

_P.S. You look cute when you sleep_

He grins. He's much more awake now.

There's the smallest smudge of oil on the corner of the paper.

 

He's crashed out on the sofa in the break room again, and only the faintest sounds of clanging intruding his sleep. The copier, he recalls foggily, they had called the mechanic back.

Augustine is, suddenly, quite awake, awake and smiling.

"Afternoon!" Meyer says cheerily when he wanders out into the hall where the copier lives, elbow deep in mechanical things and a smear of oil over his temple. "I should be done with this soon."

Augustine nods, leaning against the wall and watching him work. His eyes are closed, smile on his lips; he breathes in the scent of oil.

"I didn't wake you, did I?" Meyer says, and then ducks his head self-consciously. There's a bashful smile playing on his lips, and his cheeks are pink. "Only," he starts, hesitates, and then pushes on, "You look cute when you sleep."

This time, Augustine smiles, properly and genuinely. "Do you want to go to a cafe when you're done?" he says impulsively, "I know a place that does great sitrus macarons."

Meyer tilts his head back and laughs, gently and delightedly. "I hear they do great chocolate petit-fours with little pecha slices on them," he answers. "Yeah. Yeah, I'd love to."

Augustine smiles, and offers Meyer a hand up, and his hands are warm.

**Author's Note:**

> Thematically inspired by [this gorgeous sequence](http://vyragosa.tumblr.com/post/154953867689/meet-me-in-the-aftermath) by vyragosa.


End file.
